Harry Potter and the X of Y
by Phantom Lightning
Summary: Harry Potter is a fanfiction writer. The wizarding world is not prepared for a Harry Potter who enjoys writing fanfiction, eating honey, and also casually doing incredible feats of wandless magic without even noticing. Magic doesn't particularly care about fanfiction, but still likes Harry. Voldemort has passed life expectancy and doesn't understand "shipping," "AU," or "OC."


Harry Potter was not an ordinary boy. He was like an ordinary boy in many aspects, but there were a few notable differences that marked him as anything but. Namely, his obsession with writing, dragons, and his ability to somehow function on 4 hours of sleep, a lot of honey, and hardly any food.

Those were hardly extraordinary, but how many people were truly extraordinary? An 8 year old boy writing serious fanfiction was unusual enough to deserve recognition. He was a wizard, too, but that wasn't all the special. There were plenty of them, and there were quite a few male ones. He also defeated You-Know-Who aka the dark lord Voldemort, who had been the scourge of the wizarding world for years, but who cared about that?

Of course, he didn't know any of that. He did, however, know that this scene was completely cliche and overused.

"No, no, NO!" the eight year old quietly shouted, clutching his hair in frustration. He slumped over his desk, head resting on the several pages of writing that he had been working on for the past few hours. The desk creaked under even the light weight of a malnourished eight year old. Without thinking, he levitated a ballpoint pen into his hand. Harry didn't notice his own blatant disregard of the laws of physics, too preoccupied in ranting quietly to himself about matter that were much more important.

"I can't believe this. Three hours on this useless drivel! How am I supposed to use a plot like this? I've seen Twilight fanfiction with more originality than this." Harry moaned, throwing his arms up and facing the heavens in exasperation. The papers floated up into his hand, and he clutched them tightly before throwing them to the floor again, still not taking note of his simple, careless action that could make a physicist burst into tears.

Harry was an very unusual eight year old, and that was because he was a fanfiction writer. It might not have been glamorous like winning a Nobel prize or inventing a revolutionary new invention, but how many eight year olds actually published fanfiction without needless romance and horrible Mary Sues?

None, except for a select few that were probably not wizards.

"I can't believe this." he repeated, rolling off the chair and onto the floor. The chair made a rather distressing noise. If chairs could scream in pain, it would probably sound like that. Thankfully, the piles of paper cushioned him against the old, threadbare carpeting.

Harry lied on the floor for another hour, staring at the ceiling until he fell asleep, completely ignoring the bed right next to him. It was 1:37 AM, after all, and also a Sunday in mid-April. Not to mention the fact that the layer of papers was far more comfortable than the mattress, save for the papercuts that showed up in unusual places. That night, he would gain no fewer than five new papercuts.

Of course, that wasn't the least of his troubles.

* * *

"Oh god, what was I thinking last night."

Harry didn't even bother to make it a question, seeing as how it was the same story every time. His alarm clock had woken him up at 6:00 AM, meaning that he had gotten less than five hours of sleep and needed to cook a full breakfast for three people. Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, he quickly brushed his teeth and put on clean clothing that didn't have any coffee or honey stains. Practically flying down the stairs (and maybe actually doing it for a few seconds without noticing it in his frenzy), he ran quietly into the kitchen and began collecting the assorted pots, pans, spoons, silverware, and napkins. Setting the table with practiced ease, he turned to actually cooking the food. He smashed eggs, sizzled bacon, and made toast, setting out a jar of jam and a dish of butter. He secretly snuck a few nibbles in, ripping off tiny portions of bacon from each slice, eating the crusts that Dudley hated, and also smuggling a minute amount of jam and butter onto the bread crusts.

Sure, he would get his own breakfast, but it wouldn't meet his nutritional needs by any stretch of the imagination. At least this way, he would get some small amount of calories and protein.

No one needed to know about the small amounts of coffee and not-so-small amounts honey he took to help with writing.

When everything was done, it was 7:00 in the morning. The table was laid out with platters of bacon, toast, orange juice, yoghurt, fruits, coffee, tea, poached eggs, milk, scrambled eggs, and other foods. Harry managed to pinch a little extra fruit and bacon, with some fruit yoghurt for a nice change.

Crunching on a thin slice of pilfered apple, Harry smiled. The day was beginning to brighten up. His stomach wasn't as empty as usual and there was a shoplifted jar of organic, unprocessed honey hidden under the floorboards of his room. Today was going to be a good day, unless school managed to ruin it.

Vernon and Petunia Dursley then woke up, but that didn't spoil Harry's mood in the slightest. He could tell by the sounds. Their footsteps were loud and clumsy compared to Harry's near silent tread. Harry braced himself for the tremendous racket that would soon ensue.

"Dudley, dear, it's time to wake up for school!" Petunia Dursley called in her screechy, grating voice. Harry winced, ears used to the ambience of night. This happened every morning, but it never really got better.

It was even worse when they started eating, while Harry hid off in his room to collect some more writing supplies. Harry ate furtively, hunched over his food and glancing behind his shoulder every few seconds, because most of the time, when he ate, it wasn't allowed, but the Dursleys had worse table manners than an entire pig pen.

Petunia was the kind of woman who pretended to be part of the rarefied circles of high society. She bought plates with modern designs, had a china cabinet filled with antique teacups and glass goblets, and had utensils with fancy designs. Her home was decorated with tasteful imported potted plants, well chosen furniture, and paintings on the walls.

In reality, the plants were common local ones that had been improperly transplanted and needed to be replaced once every few months. The furniture just didn't sit quite right with the overall house and was uncomfortable to sit on, and the paintings were made by art students from the local high school who were raising money for the art programs. What few wealthy and well connected families the Dursleys had met were all rather smitten with young Harry Potter. He was respectful and definitely would grow into a handsome young man, making him a good candidate for marriage or a job. Then there was the fact that he was adopted, and who knew what kind of history had led to that.

Petunia, although her greatest wish was to move into the higher parts of society, did not have good manners at her own table. She picked up pieces of food, turning them and scrutinising them with an accusing eye before chewing slowly and deliberately. After a while, she just began eating everything.

Compared to Vernon and Dudley Dursley, however, she was an example of a lady in the highest echelons of society. The two both wore enormous bibs to catch wasted food and Dudley hardly used his utensils, preferring to let the grease and juices roll down his fingers. They also forgot to feed Harry, but that was okay. He had managed to steal a whole apple, after all.

* * *

School was a dreadful affair, as always. The teacher droned on about something or other (the rainforest? space? long division? Harry really didn't know), the students wrote about something else, and Harry wrote down a few short, concise notes and doodled on scrap paper. Thankfully, Dudley was in a different classroom.

While he was walking home (well, more running, since he was trying to get away from Dudley), he accidentally bumped into a man. The man didn't seem to mind, and he was dressed rather oddly, in black robes that wouldn't be too out of place at a convention. He was holding an intricately carved piece of wood with his left hand, and with his other hand, he held a strange silver and glass contraption that glowed and spun, making high pitched chirps. The man was frowning, eyes narrowed at the small contraption. He looked up, finally realising that someone was there, but Harry had already left.

When Harry got home, his mind was buzzing with all the ideas he had for his writing. Perhaps the man was part of a secret government agency, and that was why the device had no visible power source, light bulbs, or speakers. Maybe a secret underground society of people who could perform magic? Or maybe he was a mad genius who had invented something that was only appealing to his insanity. Or an time traveling alien from a destroyed planet with technology that only seemed like magic to the uneducated. Or maybe he bought it from a strange store that only appeared to people who needed it.

Or maybe the guy just bought it from a toy store, but that was unlikely. He didn't even have a plastic bag with him.

Harry's mind was creating ever more elaborate fantasies while he tended to the flowers. Some of the weeds uprooted themselves and levitated into a pile, but Harry was too busy thinking about new story ideas to notice. How could breaking the laws of physics possibly compare to his goldmine of new story ideas?

After he had completed the yardwork, he went inside to go hole up in his room. Usually at this time of day, Dudley would be gorging himself on food from the refrigerator, but Harry had other things to do.

Namely, things to do that involved a certain jar hidden underneath the floorboards.

Harry looked at the sheaf of papers that he had written. There were honey stains on his collar and on his sleeves, a quarter of the jar had been eaten, and quite a bit of the writing was nonsense, but he was done. Over the past few weeks (or was it months? Harry wasn't quite sure, not when he stayed up until 2 AM more often than not, and those conditions weren't exactly conducive towards having a good sense of time) he had written the tale of a young man who went to a magical school of whimsy and fought toxic fire, of the mystery of a mystical stone that gave immortality and a malevolent mirror that seduced people with their greatest dreams, and a man who redeemed himself by fighting a dark spirit that once lorded over him. It was a fanciful tale that prominently featured dragons and at least one unicorn.

Harry read over his work before shrugging and sticking it in a binder, scribbling down the date and a quick title.

"The Sorcerer's Stone", it said in red ink at the top of the first page.

That day, the wheels that had been put into motion all those years ago were finally coming to fruition. It just so happened to be that one Harry Potter was at the centre of all those twisting strands of destiny.

Harry Potter took out another black pen and started writing. The Dursleys would be calling him down soon, and he had this great idea about a massive snake with magical powers. Sure, it was childish and maybe a bit (just a tiny bit) unrealistic, but Harry was eight years old, after all.

Besides, what were the chances of a school for magic having a name that stupid?

* * *

**3/24/14 EDIT: Argh, it deleted all my line breaks and messed everything up.**

* * *

**Started: 12/2/14**  
**Finished: 20/3/14 5:33 PM**


End file.
